Chance Meetings
by PrettyArbitrary
Summary: John's not kitted out for a death match today, and Moran is only armed with a half-eaten almond horn.


**Notes:** written for a BBCSherlock kink_meme prompt.

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><p>When John glances around the cafe over his cardboard cup of Earl Grey, the man's there like he just materialized. 1.9 meters of broad-shouldered, sociopathic ex-Green Beret, hand out to accept a wax-paper-wrapped almond horn from a cashier.<p>

Moran turns, clued in to the scrutiny by a warrior's instinct, and blinks with mild surprise when their eyes meet.

Bugger. John just dropped off the laundry, he's not kitted out for a death match today. Maybe he can duck out and make a break for it, lose Moran down the back alleys...

John doesn't get to lever himself out of his seat before the other chair is being dragged back and filled with a 15 stone commando. Moran leans elbows on the little bistro table and grins. Where he came by such an unaccountably charming grin, John doesn't like to ask. Even though he was first treated to it while being wedged into a semtex vest by those big, remarkably strong hands, it still manages to be infectious. _This man,_ it tells the world, _is content with life and his place in it._ Like everything he sees is just too damn wonderful not to beam at.

Maybe he is that happy. If John's learned anything from working with Sherlock, it's that the world holds nothing so horrific that at least one psycho won't delight in it.

"Watson," he greets pleasantly. "This I was not expecting. You following me?"

The question, not to mention the head-on approach, startles a laugh out of John. "No. No, oddly enough I was wondering the same thing about you."

"Christ, no." Relieved of what was apparently his sole cause for concern, Moran settles in and takes a hearty bite out of his pastry. The furniture here is tiny, cheap knockoffs of the intimate wrought iron sets that populate the _rues_ of Paris. Moran looks like he's sitting at the kiddie table. "Just as happy to keep my arse clear of you two, to be frank. You're bleedin' poison, not that I can get the boss to listen to reason."

Lacking any reply to that, John occupies himself with a sip of his tea. "Why did you come over here, then?"

Moran shrugs. "Seemed easier than chasing you down. Or vice versa. The Saville Row Scarecrow around here anyplace?" The question is sudden and pointed, his brown eyes menacing on John's.

John stares back, ceding no ground. His assets in the event of a fight are looking pretty thin, but he'll think of something if it comes to that. "No. Jim?"

"Not hardly." Moran waves it off, relaxing again. "If he were in London, things would be exploding. He i_cannot_/i leave that idiot of yours to his own devices." John can't help rolling his eyes, which makes Moran laugh. "Sad, isn't it?" he agrees. "They're the two stupidest geniuses I know."

"Know a lot of them, do you?" John did not mean to ask that. The small amused smile he can feel on his face is also against his better judgement.

Moran flashes his teeth in response. "I've met a few," he admits. "Nothing like Jim, though. God almighty, the horror I felt when I found out there were two of them. You have no idea."

John isn't half tempted to inform him that, in point of fact, there are i_three_/i of them. But no, let them discover Mycroft for themselves if they're ever unfortunate enough to cross his path. Channeling the spirit of the man, John raises an eyebrow so dry it could desiccate the Thames. "I might."

"Yeah." Moran snorts a laugh. "You might." He takes another chunk out of his almond horn, chews thoughtfully, then leans forward on the unhappy table to peer more closely at John. "There's something I've been wondering."

His tone suggests an entirely personal kind of curiosity, and John can't help wondering in turn what about him could catch the attention of a professional assassin. He tilts his head in something like invitation.

"Why do you do this?" He meets John's eyes earnestly. "I mean, I'm here because I'm an unrepentant killer wanted on five continents, I work for a brilliant psychopath who lets me do anything I want, and I make unholy amounts of money doing things that civilized society would like to put me in a box for. You, on the other hand... Jim says you work as a substitute doctor and spend your off evenings making tea for Holmes, when you're not saving his oblivious hide or getting kidnapped for him." He spreads his hands at John's resigned sigh. "Yeah, see. Not exactly spotting the payoff of insane risk-taking in return for playing live-in housekeeper for a high-maintenance borderline maniac. You're not even getting paid for this, are you? I've kinda been wondering how you two make the rent."

John stares at him flatly, wondering why the hell Moran thinks he would answer that. Then he looks down at his tea, wondering if maybe he wants to, and gives himself time to think about it while he pops off the plastic safety lid that's perfectly engineered to maximize steam burns.

"You've got it backwards," he says at last, carefully engrossed in squeezing out his scalding hot tea bag with bare fingers.

Moran makes an odd questioning noise that draws John's eyes back up. He's horrified to be met by an expression of rapt fascination. _Oh god, not another one._ Why do they all look at him like that? "What?" he snaps.

"You hang out with him because he's exciting," Moran says slowly, like he's testing the words. John shoots him a narrow-eyed warning that has nothing to do with psychotic killers and everything to do with punching the other man in the throat if he tries to crack a joke. But instead Moran's eyes tick down and sideways to John's damaged shoulder. The process is slower, but John can see the wheels grind through the same progression as Mycroft followed, once upon a time. _Went to war, nearly died, came back and found another one._ "_John_," Moran breathes in awe. _Got kidnapped, strapped in a bomb vest, nearly died, brought a gun along for next time._ "I do believe you're the most batshit crazy man I've ever met."

John's spine snaps stiff as an offended cat's. "_Excuse_ me?"

One meaty hand knocks that objection out of the air. "Oh, he doesn't count. He doesn't think like people." Moran smiles at him, eyes shining with truly terrifying cheer. "You know what? Fuck it. Those two can manage by themselves. We ever do the dance again, lets you and me have some real fun with each other."

"You're serious." He is, that's the hell of it. John's chair creaks under him as he shifts his weight, trying to get a handle on this conversation. "Really. Just...let's us hare off and try to kill each other while the mad geniuses we came in with burn themselves down along with London." He frowns, at that level of bemusement where he can't really help but find it all funny. "D'you think we can trust them together without adult supervision?"

Moran guffaws. "I expect somebody'll die or they'll shag. Either way it'll break the tension." He crumples the wax paper in one big fist, crumbs spilling out across the table, and gets to his feet. "Well, this's been fun, but I've got errands to run." He raps his knuckles affably on John's shoulder as he walks past. "Catch you on the flip side, Watson."

John waits just long enough to see which way Moran is going, then clears off through the other exit in a different direction. He spends the whole walk home telling himself he's not looking forward to it.


End file.
